Air
by cnroth
Summary: Trapped. I'm trapped in a place that has no air. With tubes waiting to squeeze me to death and a juncture on the verge of caving in. Nowhere to run. No way to escape. But there's an animal impulse inside of me that says I have to live. (Marla Gilmore & Joe Carey)


_**Author's Note:** For Helen8462, who asked for a fic about someone getting claustrophobic in a Jefferies tube. My thanks to Klugtiger for looking over my first draft and giving me some pointers, particularly in regards to Joe Carey._

* * *

"Gilmore!" Lieutenant Torres shouts from a few stations over.

"Yes Lieutenant?" I say, snapping to attention.

"We've got a plasma relay in Jefferies tube eighty-four that's throwing errors. Grab a kit and go check it out."

I hesitate.

"What's the problem, Crewman?"

"It's just..." My chest is already getting tight. I make my way to her station and lower my voice. "Ever since, you know... I can't handle tight spaces."

She scowls. "You were in the tubes last week."

"I wasn't alone. If something happens—"

"Nothing's going to happen." The way she says it is harsh. Impatient.

I'm being difficult.

"I know," I say. "It still makes me nervous."

"Well muscle up, buttercup." She grabs a case from under her console and shoves it into my hands. "You're gonna have to get over it eventually."

She doesn't even wait for me to say, "Aye, Lieutenant," before she turns on a heel and stalks off.

I force my feet forward and march out the door.

* * *

Four decks up, I stand in an alcove just staring at the tiny doors leading into the Jefferies tube. Terrified. The nucleogenic aliens haven't attacked in over a month. They aren't coming back. There's absolutely no reason to be afraid.

I can't help it. The fear won't go away. If anything, it's gotten worse. But Lieutenant Torres is right. I'll have to get over this eventually. Might as well face it now.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I key in my code and crawl inside.

About halfway down is the access panel. I take a seat, lay my case on the grate, and pop the panel open. Without even grabbing my tricorder, I can see something's wrong. Lights around two isolinear chips are out, and several others are blinking. I open my case and get to work.

A sound like wind whistling over an empty glass bottle suddenly seems to fill the space.

Instinctively, I reach for a phaser that isn't there and search the area for fissures. As my eyes flit from one place to the next, I realize it was just the environmental control systems kicking on.

It doesn't sound remotely like the nucleogenic aliens. It's not even as loud as I thought it was. I'm reacting to nothing.

"Focus, Marla," I mutter, then grit my teeth and yank out a chip. I _will _do this, damnit, and prove to Lieutenant Torres that I'm not useless. I'm not afraid. I can do my damn job.

I can atone for my sins.

Taking an isolinear spanner from the case, I flick it on and point the laser at the circuit. This one isn't damaged enough to replace. A quick repair should do the trick.

The other chips might be a different story.

Hairs rise on the back of my neck and my muscles tense. I turn off the spanner. Glance over my shoulder and above my head. Nothing but bulkheads.

"I'm fine," I say to myself, and switch the tool back on.

But the walls are closing in and I'm trapped. What if something happens and I can't get out? What if we get attacked? Or main power goes down and leaves me in the dark? What if this conduit blows up in my face and no one ever finds me?

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

"No!" I shake my head. "Nothing is here. Nothing is going to happen."

My hands tremble, setting the laser out of alignment with the circuit and blowing it. The glass it's encased in protects my skin, but still. I just wasted a chip.

Lieutenant Torres is going to be pissed.

No she won't. It's just a chip. One chip. Accidents happen sometimes. She might be irritated, but not pissed. If I offer to use my own replicator rations to replace it, she might not be upset at all. I shut off the spanner.

I'm going to die.

No. No I'm not. I'm not. I stow the chip in my case and pull out a fresh one, sliding it into the empty slot. One down.

Too many still to go.

My chest struggles to move as if held by a rusty hinge. It hurts. I can't breathe. What if I suffocate? I'm going to suffocate.

I'm going to die.

A cold sweat breaks out on my skin. My heart pounds in my ears, pulse throbbing against my neck. Tingling sensations begin crawling up my fingertips. Am I having a heart attack? I think I'm having a heart attack.

I'm going to die.

No. Not if I can get out of here and get help. I abandon my case and crawl. I don't even know where I'm going. Just crawl. Forward.

Get out.

The tube squeezes, the already small space around me getting even smaller. I speed up my pace. If the walls cave in, I'll never make it out alive. The threshold is getting close, but so are the bulkheads. If they get any tighter...

The hatch opens. My head emerges from the tube and I scramble into the juncture. Alive. I'm alive. I take a breath, but the air is thick.

Is someone gassing me?

A lot of people hate me. Everyone hates me for what I did. I hate me, too. And now I'm going to die.

No. No one is gassing me. It's just this place. I'm too deep in the bowels of the ship. Like a cave. You get too deep and there's no oxygen. Bad air. And you suffocate. Die.

I'm going to die.

My eyes search for an escape, but I already know there is none. Only more junctures and tubes.

No. I can't take any of these routes. I'll die. This place has me cornered. I could comm someone, but who? And how would they reach me?

Now the juncture is closing in, too.

I drop to my knees and cover my head. My body rocks. It helps a little, but not enough. It won't save me. These bulkheads, they're strong. Heavy. They'll crush me. They're crushing me.

It's a tomb. I'm going to die.

"HELP!" I scream, desperate for someone to hear me. "PLEASE HELP ME! PLEASE! I'M GOING TO DIE! PLEASE!"

Then I'm simply screaming. No words. Just screams. This is how I'm going to die.

I'm going to die.

I'm going.

To die.

I'm.

Going.

To.

_DIE_.

My throat is closing. Hoarse. It hurts. I'm gasping for air.

Trapped. I'm trapped in a place that has no air. With tubes waiting to squeeze me to death and a juncture on the verge of caving in. Nowhere to run. No way to escape.

But there's an animal impulse inside of me that says I have to live.

"Please," I try to call out, though it's only a breathless whisper. All I can do is pant. My lungs won't expand.

Air. I need air. It seems so thin here. I try to inhale more deeply, but I can't control my breathing. The precious air I had is gone. And I'm going to die.

My head swims. I'm dying. I'm actually dying.

This is how I die.

"Gilmore?"

A voice echoes through the juncture. A man's voice. It's barely louder than my breathing. My heartbeat. My dying.

But it's there.

Hands wrap around my shoulders. "Marla, it's Joe. Joe Carey. Can you hear me?"

I can't speak. I'm going to pass out. Die. I'm going to die.

No. He can save me.

I nod.

"Purse your lips together and breathe through your mouth," he says.

I do. My cheeks puff and contract. But there's less air and I can't breathe. So I shake my head. Open my mouth. Gulp down the thick, hot air.

It's not enough.

"I know it feels uncomfortable," he says, "but you have to try. It's the only way to keep yourself from passing out."

So I try again. Can't breathe. Have to open my mouth or I'll die.

No. Carey said this will help, and I believe him. I grit my teeth and keep on breathing the way he told me to.

Breathing.

And breathing.

Finding air.

After a while, it gets easier. The vertigo fades. I'm not dying. Maybe I'm going to live.

My face is soaked, strands of hair stuck to my cheeks. Only now do I realize this. I'm folded over myself, crying. Tears pool on the deck. I curl my fingers against my scalp and rock.

"Are you hurt?" Carey asks.

I don't know. Am I hurt? Maybe not. I shake my head.

"You're going to be okay, Marla. Just keep breathing. I'm right here."

His hand is on my back now, and it makes me feel secure. Nothing can hurt me. Not when he's here. It'll have to go through him first.

My heart slows. My breathing, too. I let go of my head. Look up. The juncture is the same size it always is. Still too small, but it isn't closing in anymore.

The air is cool and sweet.

"Can you stand?" he asks.

"I think so," I whisper.

He helps me to my feet.

Standing makes the juncture seem cramped. I look around and the bulkheads start to tighten again. It's not real. It's all in my head. But I can't stay here.

"Come on." Carey nods towards the corridor I came from. "I'll take you to—"

"NO!" I shout, recoiling because I can't go back in there. My body collides with a bulkhead and everything is too close. "I can't. It's too small."

"Okay," he says. "I think I see what's going on here. How about a site-to-site? Is that alright?"

"Yes." My voice is shaking. "Please. I need out."

He turns to the panel and taps in a few commands. In less than a minute, we're in sickbay.

The doctor asks what's wrong. I wrap my arms around myself. I don't know what's wrong with me.

"I think she had a panic attack," Carey says.

A panic attack. Is that what it was?

"I see," the doctor says. "Bring her over here." He motions to a biobed and Lieutenant Carey guides me there.

With gentle hands, Carey helps me onto the bed. I'm shaking so hard. Tears keep coming down my cheeks. They must think I'm weak.

I'm so embarrassed.

The doctor scans me with a medical tricorder and says, "Hmm." He asks for my symptoms, but I'm not sure what they are. I don't even know what happened.

They both stare at me, but I just shake my head.

Again, Lieutenant Carey comes to my rescue. "Well, what got my attention was the screaming. I could hear her through the bulkhead. So I crawled into the Jefferies tube and she was in the junction, balled up on the deck and hyperventilating. Once I got her to calm down, I offered to take her to sickbay, but she wouldn't go. She said the tube was too small. Right, Marla?"

"Yes," I say, my voice cracking.

"Your kit was still in there," Carey says, this time to me, "and the access panel was open like you'd panicked in the middle of a repair and fled. Is that what happened?"

"I thought—" No. Don't mention the aliens. Or any of the other scenarios I played out in my head. They'll think I'm crazy. "I felt trapped."

Another "hmm," from the doctor. Then, "Crewman, have you had a history of claustrophobia?"

"Ever since the… the..." I can't finish the sentence. _Equinox_. The fissures. The nucleogenic lifeforms. This is everything wrong with me. My weakness. My treachery. My dead captain and crew mates. My ship and all that I knew.

I brought this on myself.

"Then this distress is related to your trauma on the _Equinox_, not the result of a specific phobia?"

The mention of my former post makes me flinch. "I think… maybe it's both? It's been getting worse."

"I see," says the doctor. "And today in the Jefferies tube, did you experience an increased heart rate or palpitations?"

"Yes."

"Pain or tightness in your chest?"

"Yes."

"Sweating?"

I wipe my still-sweaty palms on my pants and nod.

"Numbness or tingling sensations?"

Nod again.

"Any overwhelming feelings that you were in danger, like you were going to die or lose your mind?"

"Yes. I couldn't breathe, like there wasn't enough air. And the bulkheads… I thought they were going to crush me."

"I see," he says again. "It seems Mister Carey is correct. Do you have a history of panic attacks?"

"No."

"Hmm." The doctor walks away.

When he returns, he presses a hypospray to my neck. "This should alleviate the anxiety for now. Go to your quarters. Get some rest. I want to do some assessments, but not while you're still upset. Come back when you're feeling better and we'll find a more long-term solution."

"Thank you," is all I can say.

"You're welcome," he replies before he walks away.

The fear is fading. My muscles are relaxing and I can breathe again. There is more than enough air in this room.

I look at Lieutenant Carey. "How… how did you know?"

"My oldest son has panic disorder," he says. "That breathing exercise? I used to do that with him to help him calm down."

"Oh."

"I can show you some of the techniques my son's therapist taught us, if you'd like."

As if I deserve his help. I open my mouth to politely decline, but instead say, "I'd appreciate that." Because I need it.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks at me with a kindness I haven't seen before today. "Don't worry, Crewman. I suggest you ask the doctor for a work accommodation order and file it with Commander Chakotay. Do that and you won't have to go into a Jefferies tube again. Not until you're ready."

"But..." I gulp. "Lieutenant Torres said I have to get over it."

"Not if you have a documented medical or psychological condition. She can't touch that. And if she does give you any problems—" He smiles. "She'll have to come through me."


End file.
